Stories can save us. I'm 43 years old, and a writer now, and even still, right here, I keep dreaming Linda alive. Ted Lavender, too, and Curt Lemon, and several other bodies. They're all dead. But in a story, which is a kind of dreaming, the dead sometimes smile and sit up and return to the world.
On an afternoon in 1969 the platoon took sniper fire. Lt. Jimmy Cross got on the radio and ordered up an air strike. For the next half hour we watched the place burn. It was all wreckage. And the only confirmed kill was an old man who lay face-up near a pigpen.
Dave Jensen went over and shook the old man's hand. "How-dee-doo!"
One by one the others did it too. They didn't disturb the body, they just grabbed the only man's hand and offered a few words and moved away. I was brand new to the war. It was only my fourth day; I hadn't yet developed a sense of humor.
After a moment Dave Jensen touched my shoulder. "Be polite now. Go introduce yourself. Show a little respect for your elders." Jensen kept after me but I didn't go near the body.
They proposed toasts. They lifted their canteens and drank to the old man's family and ancestors. It was more than a mockery. There was a formality to it, like a funeral without the sadness.
Dave Jensen flicked his eyes at me. "Hey O'Brien, you got a toast in mind? Never too late for manners."
Late in the afternoon Kiowa came up and sat in my foxhold. "You did a good thing today, that shaking hands crap. It isn't decent."
"I was scared. I couldn't do it. A mental block or something. I don't know, just creepy."
"Well you're new here. You'll get used to it. Today--I guess that was your first look at a real body?"
"It sounds funny, but that poor old man, he reminds me of....I mean, there's this girl I used to know. I took her to the movies once. My first date."
Linda was nine then, as I was, but we were in love. And it was real. When I write about her now, it's tempting to dismiss it as a crush, an infatuation of childhood, but I know for a fact that what we felt for each other was as deep and rich as love can ever get.
When we were in the fourth grade, I took her out on the first date of my life---a double date, actually with my mother and father. Now and then I'd glance over at her, thinking how beautiful she was: her white skin and those dark brown eyes and the way she always smiled at the world. The smile never went away. That night, she wore a new red cap, which seemed to me very stylish and sophisticated, very unusual.
The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head. THere is the illusion of aliveness. In Vietnam, for instance, Ted Lavender had a habit of popping 4 or 5 tranquilizers every morning. It was his way of coping, and the drugs helped to ease him through the days. I remember how peaceful his eyes were. And then in April he was shot in the head. I remember squatting down, not wanting to look but then looking. It wasn't the blood I hated; it was the deadness.
Over the next few weeks, Linda wore her new red cap to school every day. She never took it off, not even in the classroom, and so it was inevitable that she took some teasing about it. It went on like that for weeks. Naturally I wanted to do something about it, but It just wasn't possible. I should've stepped in. It was an afternoon in late spring and we were taking a spelling test and Nick had asked to use the pencil sharpener. The teacher nodded and told him to hustle it up. On the way back to his seat, Nick took a short detour and moved up the aisle toward Linda. I saw hin grin at one of his pals. As he passed Linda's desk, his left hand slid behind her back. He took hold of the tassel and gently lifted off her cap.
Somebody must've laughed. I remember Nick trying to smile. Linda didn't move. Even now when I thinkn back on it, I can still see the glossy whiteness of her scalp. She wasn't bald. Not completely. But what I saw then, and what I keep seeing now, is all the whiteness. She didn't say anything.
On a September afternoon Nick came up to me, "Your girlfriend, she's dead." Somehow it didn't quite register. I turned away, then walked home and didn't tell anyone. She died. Nine years old and she died. It was a brain tumor. She lived through the summer and then she was dead.
As a writer now, I want to save Linda's life. Not her body--her life. In a story I can steal her soul. I can revive, at least briefly, that which is absolute and unchanging. In a story, miracles can happen. Linda can smile and sit up. She can reach out and say "Timmy stop crying".
On an afternoon in 1969 the platoon took sniper fire. Lt. Jimmy Cross got on the radio and ordered up an air strike. For the next half hour we watched the place burn. It was all wreckage. And the only confirmed kill was an old man who lay face-up near a pigpen.
Dave Jensen went over and shook the old man's hand. "How-dee-doo!"
One by one the others did it too. They didn't disturb the body, they just grabbed the only man's hand and offered a few words and moved away. I was brand new to the war. It was only my fourth day; I hadn't yet developed a sense of humor.
After a moment Dave Jensen touched my shoulder. "Be polite now. Go introduce yourself. Show a little respect for your elders." Jensen kept after me but I didn't go near the body.
They proposed toasts. They lifted their canteens and drank to the old man's family and ancestors. It was more than a mockery. There was a formality to it, like a funeral without the sadness.
Dave Jensen flicked his eyes at me. "Hey O'Brien, you got a toast in mind? Never too late for manners."
Late in the afternoon Kiowa came up and sat in my foxhold. "You did a good thing today, that shaking hands crap. It isn't decent."
"I was scared. I couldn't do it. A mental block or something. I don't know, just creepy."
"Well you're new here. You'll get used to it. Today--I guess that was your first look at a real body?"
"It sounds funny, but that poor old man, he reminds me of....I mean, there's this girl I used to know. I took her to the movies once. My first date."
Linda was nine then, as I was, but we were in love. And it was real. When I write about her now, it's tempting to dismiss it as a crush, an infatuation of childhood, but I know for a fact that what we felt for each other was as deep and rich as love can ever get.
When we were in the fourth grade, I took her out on the first date of my life---a double date, actually with my mother and father. Now and then I'd glance over at her, thinking how beautiful she was: her white skin and those dark brown eyes and the way she always smiled at the world. The smile never went away. That night, she wore a new red cap, which seemed to me very stylish and sophisticated, very unusual.
The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head. THere is the illusion of aliveness. In Vietnam, for instance, Ted Lavender had a habit of popping 4 or 5 tranquilizers every morning. It was his way of coping, and the drugs helped to ease him through the days. I remember how peaceful his eyes were. And then in April he was shot in the head. I remember squatting down, not wanting to look but then looking. It wasn't the blood I hated; it was the deadness.
Over the next few weeks, Linda wore her new red cap to school every day. She never took it off, not even in the classroom, and so it was inevitable that she took some teasing about it. It went on like that for weeks. Naturally I wanted to do something about it, but It just wasn't possible. I should've stepped in. It was an afternoon in late spring and we were taking a spelling test and Nick had asked to use the pencil sharpener. The teacher nodded and told him to hustle it up. On the way back to his seat, Nick took a short detour and moved up the aisle toward Linda. I saw hin grin at one of his pals. As he passed Linda's desk, his left hand slid behind her back. He took hold of the tassel and gently lifted off her cap.
Somebody must've laughed. I remember Nick trying to smile. Linda didn't move. Even now when I thinkn back on it, I can still see the glossy whiteness of her scalp. She wasn't bald. Not completely. But what I saw then, and what I keep seeing now, is all the whiteness. She didn't say anything.
On a September afternoon Nick came up to me, "Your girlfriend, she's dead." Somehow it didn't quite register. I turned away, then walked home and didn't tell anyone. She died. Nine years old and she died. It was a brain tumor. She lived through the summer and then she was dead.
As a writer now, I want to save Linda's life. Not her body--her life. In a story I can steal her soul. I can revive, at least briefly, that which is absolute and unchanging. In a story, miracles can happen. Linda can smile and sit up. She can reach out and say "Timmy stop crying".